Lowtown Mabari Blues
by Foxfire1
Summary: The Champion's dog has his own champion-ish moments. Or, where do those Torn Trousers keep coming from? Set between the prologue and Act I.


He is a good Dog in a bad place. Kirkwall smells of dead fish, human waste, and old things gone stale with despair, and he catches the honest scent of rabbits only when he dreams. Packleader uses her "good-Dog-let's-play!" voice _all the time_ to keep the others' spirits up, but he can hear the falsity and he thinks the rest of the pack can too. Little Sister is tense and watchful every minute, and the Mother howls for the pup they lost, but tries to do it quietly, so no one can hear. He doesn't like it here.

Packleader is gone most of the time, doing the hunting for some kennelmaster he doesn't know. Sometimes she brings him along, and that's good, but mostly it's Little Sister, which is bad because it leaves him with two packmates he can't protect. And sometimes she goes out all alone and comes back extra tired and with her shoulders drooping. He gets lots of ear scratches then, and puts his head on her lap to tell her she's a good leader.

But he'd rather go with her, and tries to squeeze out the door with her when she wriggles into her armor and leaves one early evening. "Look at him, he just wants to help," Little Sister says, and he chuffs. Little Sister is very smart.

"I know, Bethy, I know. And he couldn't fumble a lock any worse than Huroc did last week-"

He does not _fumble_. He is a good Dog.

"-but I'm fairly certain they'd notice a mabari trotting through the warehouse. Maybe we can bring him back a thug to chew on? I'm sure Sharp's boys could spare one or two."

Disappointed, he whines, and Packleader rubs behind his ears. "It's not the place for you, boy. I need you to stay here and - and look after Mother, all right?"

He does that already. But when he sees the Mother flinch and reach for a knobby stick when the den is empty and something thumps outside, he realizes he can do more.

He paws the door open when Packleader is gone - it's not hard at all, Old Dog's den is not very sturdy - and patrols the knot of alleys around his pack's home. It stinks, but he's used to that. If there is trouble outside, he will chase it away.

There is no trouble that needs chasing that night, so he comes back again later, and still again after that, whenever Packleader is gone. He shows his teeth to the ones who don't smell right, wags tentatively at the ones who do, and once escorts an overburdened female back to her den because she smells tired and scared. Sometimes, somebody needs biting, and gradually he increases his range so that the should-be-bitten people stay far, far away from HIS den. He trots down to the docks, and up to the place where the people-with-horns live, and along the winding streets to the place where the cat-ear people live. When he finds people who need biting, he bites them.

He is much more cheerful until the night when Packleader comes home long after moonrise. She scratches his ears and eyes him sideways; the look says "play" but the voice says "not a completely good Dog". "Aveline says the guard are getting complaints about a huge dog scaring the locals, and threatening any number of completely legitimate businessmen. Plus one about a really huge rat with big, sharp, pointy teeth, but _he _was leaving the Hanged Man a little the worse for wear. I don't suppose you would know anything about that, would you?"

It's not quite a whine and not quite a growl buried deep in his throat, but he can't _quite_ look at her and that is good enough for Packleader. "_I_ don't mind, but Aveline's got troubles enough to deal with, without having to pretend she has no idea what they're talking about. Can you at least stop the biting and the leaping out of dark alleys?"

He whuffles, scrapes a back paw on the floor. It's not that he likes to bite so much as the way biting gets their undivided attention.

"It's important."

He sighs, lies down, and puts his chin down between his paws. It's not always easy to be a good Dog.

Next time he goes patrolling their territory, he neither bites nor leaps. Sidling works almost as well, when all you need is to chase the bad ones away. Any animal understands a bite to the tail, but since humans don't have those, he aims for their cloth coverings instead, and the should-be-bitten people understand his meaning quite plainly. He is trotting proudly home with a pair of tattered trousers in his jaws (bury them snug and deep, bury them under Old Dog's den, where he can catch a whiff and remember his triumph) when it occurs to him that Packleader may not be as proud as he is.

Bury them somewhere _else…?_

Boxes and crates and barrels are everywhere down by the sea. Most of them empty, some of them sealed only loosely. He noses the lid off a barrel, streeeeeeeetches, and carefully deposits his trophy inside. Lid back on, nothing to see, nothing for a dull human nose to catch, and he's a good Dog.

Things get slowly better around Old Dog's den, and he keeps up his patrols to keep the Mother and Little Sister safe. And even Old Dog, if he really has to. Little Sister is not as scared of hunters, Packleader's playful voice is sometimes genuine, and sometimes there is the clink of coins in her pocket or the smell of good cheese and bread. One night there is meat for stew, and a soup bone all for him when it's done. He is sprawled under the table gnawing on it when Packleader reaches down and scratches all around his ears. "Good Dog," she tells him, and he thumps his tail.

He really is.


End file.
